


The Metaphorical Heart

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying, Depression, Homophobic Slurs, Johnlock if you want - Freeform, M/M, Metaphorical Heart, Soft Squishy Fluff, drug references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes stopped caring at a very young age, when he learnt that the world was a cruel place.  When he realised that no matter how much you wanted to offer the world your heart, open in the palm of your small hand, yearning for reciprocation of the faith and trust you so naively showed, the world would still turn around and crush it until it was a twisted, mangled mess.  Sherlock had learnt that that was the way the world worked, and rather than feel his heart beat less and less, but ache more and more, he had learnt how to stop that metaphorical heart from ticking.  Like an old pocket watch that needed to be wound in order to keep working, Sherlock just refused to wind it anymore. </p><p>All it took was an invalided army doctor to wind it back up again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Metaphorical Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick something I whipped up while trying to eradicate writer's block for another fic I am working on. 
> 
> As usual, I don't own the characters but I can pretend!!
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

It is a small known fact that inside of us all beats two hearts.

The first heart is a literal, physical organ.  A muscle that beats and pulses and pumps blood through our body in order to keep us alive.  it is roughly the size of your clenched fist and will, typically, stay strong if looked after with good diet, exercise and lifestyle choices.  Everyone has one of these hearts that function at one capacity or another.

The second heart is more of a metaphorical heart but it is just as essential as the first one.  Unlike the literal heart this one can be removed from the body and worn on the sleeve or, if you are so bold, can be held in the palm of your hand and offered, in good faith, to anyone you deem worthy to have access to such a precious possession.  Unlike the physical heart this one will continue to grow bigger and larger the more it is cared for, and it _does_ need caring for.  It needs nurturing and feeding.  It needs maintaining, just like any object of worth, it needs to be loved and if it starts to beat a little too slowly it needs winding up in order to continue beating.  To continue loving.  

It is this heart that shows us how much we are cared for by others and in turn, how much we care for ourselves.

Sherlock Holmes stopped caring at a very young age, when he learnt that the world was a cruel place.  When he realised that no matter how much you wanted to offer the world your heart, open in the palm of your small hand, yearning for reciprocation of the faith and trust you so naively showed, the world would still turn around and crush it until it was a twisted, mangled mess.  Sherlock had learnt that that was the way the world worked, and rather than feel his heart beat less and less, but ache more and more, he had learnt how to stop that metaphorical heart from ticking.  Like an old pocket watch that needed to be wound in order to keep working, Sherlock just refused to wind it anymore.

All it took was an invalided army doctor to wind it back up again.

~o~

                Sherlock was six years old when he had his small heart _truly_ hurt for the first time.  Mycroft had already left for boarding school and Sherlock was finally allowed to attend a _real_ school. There would be other children, his mother had told him, and teachers full of new knowledge, his father had said.  There would be friends to made and facts to be learnt and Sherlock’s small, but very generous heart burst with the idea of it all, full of excitement and anticipation and with joy and hope and wonder.  The friends never came, but the facts did.  Sherlock learnt many things his first year at school.  He learnt that he was different and different was not good.  Sherlock learnt that words could hurt more than the twisting of an arm, but being pushed over wasn’t nearly as painful as the laughter that followed it.  He learnt that he hated the word _Freak_.

                When Sherlock was seven years old his mother spent the summer break convincing Sherlock that this year would be better.  There would be new children in his class. So Sherlock started his second year at school with a heart that wasn’t quite full to bursting, but was still beating a little faster than it normally did.  It tapped out an unusual rhythm out of excitement and anticipation, and maybe just a little bit of fear as well.  During Sherlock’s second year there were still no friends.  But there was still things to be learnt.  Things such as, no matter how high he jumped, he couldn’t reach his bag that had been hooked over the fence posts.  He learnt that if he clenched his eyes shut before he hit the ground, dirt didn’t get into them, so he didn’t have to worry about seeing a teacher to flush them after he had been pushed in the sand pit.  He learnt that birthday invitations weren’t really that special anyway.

                Sherlock’s father convinced him that the children would have matured more now that they were eight years old and they would be easier to get along with. On the first day back at school Sherlock’s heart, which was a bit bigger but a bit less generous, now beat out a tattoo in his small chest.  It beat its irregular beat in anticipated hope and fear.  By the end of that year Sherlock still didn’t have any friends but he had learnt how to hide bruises from his parents and had learnt that being smart was not a way to make friends.  He learnt how to tape the pages back in his books so that they were still easy to read and he learnt that just because other kids were smaller and younger didn’t mean that they were nicer.

              By the time Sherlock was nine years old his parents believed that he was doing well, socially, at school, if only he would try to build up his confidence and try to be a bit less shy.  His heart tapped out an irregular beat in anticipation and fear.  Throughout the year Sherlock did not make any new friends.  But he learnt many valuable lessons.  He learnt that if he left class first he could get out of the school and on his way home, via a rather complicated route, without being stopped by the mindless oafs that had nothing better to do than follow him home for no other reason to make his life hard.  He learnt that anxiety attacks can be controlled by cupping his hands over his mouth and breathing back in the carbon dioxide that had left his lungs mere seconds before.  He learnt that staying awake for two nights straight left him less exhausted than fighting nightmares every night.

              When Sherlock was ten years old the thought of school made his heart beat slowly, out of sheer fear.  Sherlock didn’t even think about the word friend, let alone expect he would make one.  He did think about the things he learnt, though. That year he learnt how to break into the library and that it was a much more peaceful and productive environment for the lunch time break.  He learnt how to watch people and figure out small things that no one else noticed.  He learnt good places to spend his time when he told his parents he was meeting up with a group of (non-existing) friends from school.  He learnt what an ulna sounded like snapping after you had been ‘ _accidentally knocked_ ’ down the stairs. 

             When Sherlock was eleven years old he started the school year out feeling nothing but resignation and with an average sized heart that refused to beat out anything other than what was necessary to keep him alive.  That year at school there were no friends, as predicted. Also as predicted, there were things to learn. Throughout that year he learnt that teachers weren’t an ally and would turn the blind eye rather than deal with the problem that was Sherlock Holmes.  He learnt that boasting about a higher IQ only led to you being pushed up against a brick wall hard enough to bruise your shoulder blades.  He learnt that it was possible to have your feet kicked out from under you as you were walking along, minding your own business.  He learnt that a smart mouth meant a bloodied mouth. 

                 By the time Sherlock had finished high school his heart was steeled and hard, a part in the machinery that made up his transport.  It was essential that it was there but it didn’t matter.  It served its purpose and Sherlock expected no more and no less.  Those years he hated everyone before they got a chance to hate him.  And as always there was new knowledge.  There was the knowledge that Sherlock had to keep secrets to himself because the beatings that came with the label of _Freak_ were minor and easy to conceal.  The beatings that came with the label of _Faggot_ were not as generous.  He learnt that spitting back at the people who spat on him didn’t make him feel better, it just made him feel disgusting.  He learnt that despite knowing more that the teaching staff, they would mark you down because they didn’t like your attitude.  He learnt how to drive away dorm mates in order to have a room to himself.  He learnt the term _Sociopath_. He learnt basic self-defence manoeuvres that catered for his tall, gangly, slight form.  He also learnt that cigarettes were a wonderful form of stress relief.  Most importantly, he learnt that he didn’t care what anyone else thought of him.

              At the end of Sherlock's time university he had all but forgotten about that little heart that had ticked away so actively when he was six years old.  He had learnt that other people’s lives were too easy to deduce and that their own secrets were a wonderful weapon to use against them.  He learnt that intelligence was not something to be ashamed of.  He learnt that because the teachers were older and had higher levels of education that didn’t mean that they were not stupid.  In fact, most of the general population were idiots.  He learnt that there was many ways to garner information from people, quite often without them realising they were giving it.  He learnt that manipulation was an art form, and a handy one to have mastered.  He learnt that if he was rude, brash and abrasive then people generally left him to his own devices.  He learnt that the world was a busy, noisy place.  And he learnt that cocaine made everything quieter.

~o~

        By the time Sherlock Holmes was 34 years old he had long ago convinced himself that in order to be able to survive this world then caring was not an advantage.  He had a literal heart in his chest and it beat approximately 70 beats per minute if no exertion had been made.  It pumped the blood through his body allowing him to survive.  It probably wasn’t cared for as much as it should have been but it most certainly wasn’t neglected either.  It was an essential piece of the machinery that was his transport, the vessel that housed the most important organ in his body.  His brain.  It most certainly wasn’t conducive to be used as a tool to _feel_ things.  It played no part in making decisions and in no way clouded his judgement.  It sat in his chest and worked as it should. 

          What Sherlock was unaware of was that behind that organ that pumped blood through his body was another heart.  A much smaller heart.  A heart he thought no longer existed.  Once upon a time this heart had been the bigger of the two organs, full of hope and wonder and excitement.  Full of love.  But like anything else in this world it needed maintaining in order to work.  Without the care that was needed to help this heart to whirr and tick and beat it had seized up, ceased working altogether and Sherlock was fine with that.  It was better that way.  It had been like that for so long that there was no hope for it to be revived anyway, so there was no point acknowledging it.

      At least, that was until a certain ex-army doctor limped into his life.  It was then that Sherlock felt a small ticking in his chest that wasn’t there before.  It was hardly noticeable, and wasn’t constantly present.  It was actually more of an echo of something that he had long forgotten, pushed aside as unimportant.

Over time the echo became more solid and although it was still small it was becoming more and more noticeable.

       Before long the ticking had turned into a regular beat, but it had happened so gradually that Sherlock wasn’t aware, straight away, that it was even there and when he did finally acknowledge its existence he did not know why it had suddenly started functioning again.  While he tried to get used to the existence of this second heart once more, a heart he hadn’t used in a long, _long_ , time, he thought about what could have set it in motion again.  He could only come to one conclusion, and that was that without Sherlock noticing, ex-army doctor, John Watson had reached into his chest, with those skilled surgeon’s hands, and wound up that metaphorical heart inside of Sherlock’s chest.  He had fed it and nurtured it and looked after it.  He had loved it and brought it back to life and under the care of those doctors hands that small, withered heart grew.  And over time, with the care it needed, it outgrew the literal heart and Sherlock was able to look to the world with excitement and anticipation and with joy and hope and wonder, and above all he could look to his world, his John, with love.


End file.
